


Succumb

by maquira



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, Dark Mark (Harry Potter), Death Eater Recruitment, Death Eaters, Horror, M/M, Rebellious Regulus, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Unresolved Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-02-10 15:43:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18663364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maquira/pseuds/maquira
Summary: The year is 1979. Lord Voldemort is at his prime.Regulus is fresh out of Hogwarts when he meets the Dark Lord for the first time...“Let me go, youmuggle fucker!”





	Succumb

_The year is 1979. Lord Voldemort is at his prime._

 

Regulus is fresh out of Hogwarts when he meets the Dark Lord for the first time.

He’s youthful and lithe, surrounded by many of his bright-eyed former peers in the grand hallways of Malfoy Manor. Everyone holds themselves in the same graceful manner; they are, after all, the product of years of pureblood training and etiquette. But even manners cannot disguise their curiosity, their hunger and desire to _impress_ a man they have never met… but have only heard great things about.

 Regulus does his best to imitate his colleagues.

He lingers near the kitchen, plucking wine-red grapes from a porcelain bowl. Most of the dishes laid out have been left untouched, a clear testament of how nervous many of the young initiates, future Death Eaters, are.

Regulus cannot find it within himself to care.

Perhaps there was a time when he would have cared. There had been a time when he’d been known as the second son, secondary in every way— _smaller, weaker, less powerful, less good-looking._ Back then, the desire to prove himself had been stronger than ever.

But now, being the _only_ son, all responsibilities and the family name have fallen to him. _Toujours Pur—_ “Always Pure.” The words haunt him, precisely because they make up the family motto his mother has repeated to him countless times throughout his youth. And, most recently, at his Hogwarts graduation.

“We are pure,” Walburga had whispered into his left ear, her gentle tone so at odds with the wickedly maddening grasp she’d had on his wrist. Like always, her nails had dug into the tender skin of his wrist in a way that always left it throbbing, barely shy of drawing blood.

It was the same controlling grasp she’d kept on Regulus all his life.

“Now go… purify the _rest_ of the world.”

Regulus sucks in a quick breath at the memory of those words and unwittingly crushes a grape between his fingers, letting its maroon juice stain his hands.

When he opens his hand, his fingers outstretched, the grape’s shriveled, fleshy remains are left upon his palm. He stares at it, numb, wondering what his life has come to. He is about to join a group of terrorists for a cause he isn’t necessarily passionate about, isn’t even sure he fully supports, under the demands of family pressure. He feels like he is having an out-of-the-body experience; Regulus is fully aware of the messed-up situation he is in and unable to stop from going through with it anyways.

A humorless chuckle escapes his mouth, quiet and camouflaged by the noise of the general crowd around him. Perhaps some would call this an existential crisis. But _no,_ he is the sole heir to the Black family—and, ah, this is _ridiculous._ He cannot afford to think this way, and especially not _here_ of all places—

“Preparing?”

Regulus barely contains his jump at the low, drawling voice.

He is not someone who scares easily. But it had been too close, too sudden, a warm breath against his neck. And the voice, though tinged with amusement, had contained an unmistakable tenor of authority and something darker, something _dangerous_ that left him feeling on edge.

“For what?” Regulus breathes mindlessly, his chest pounding as he continues to face forward, not facing the presence behind him. He has been shocked back to reality by the low voice behind him, a reminder that he is in a very dangerous place surrounded by Dark wizards.

“For the blood that will stain your pretty hands?” the low voice continues, amusement clearer than ever. Regulus barely spares a glance for the red grape stains on his hands, which _do_ look eerily like blood stains, but…

_Pretty?_

Indignation courses through Regulus’s veins, making his blood rush despite his attempts to stop it. It’s not like he’s never been called _pretty_ before; he’s well aware of how he looks. His cousins have teased him mercilessly about his appearance. Regulus knows he’s grown up looking more feminine than is acceptable for any self-respecting man, and it irks the _hell_ out of him.

But for some reason, the way _this_ man says it gets on his nerves in a way no other has. He can feel an ugly flush beginning to creep up the back of his neck.

He replies in as neutral a tone as he can manage.

“I’ve been prepared since the day I was sorted into Slytherin,” Regulus says evenly.

Because it’s true. Innocence doesn’t survive seven years in a snake’s den. Slytherin House, with its old boy networking politics and pureblood traditions of hazing, has been preparing Regulus for this very moment.

Joining the Death Eaters… it’s just like becoming part of a more selective, even more culty version of Slytherin, isn’t it?

But the man behind Regulus—whoever he is—isn’t done with him.

“It is strange to see an initiate so relaxed.” The voice is curious, prodding. “Are you so sure of yourself, that you will be selected?”

The man speaks slowly, as if weighing every word carefully. He is clearly an intelligent man.

He is someone Regulus is growing warier and warier of by the second.

“Perhaps I do not care nearly as much as them!” Regulus bites out illogically, in a moment of honesty, temporarily overcome by his emotions: nervousness and impatience and a desire to _leave._

Done with this deception, he tenses and makes to twist around and see who has been tormenting him with these strange questions— _tests_. But as if anticipating his actions, an arm clamps around his waist from behind, one hand locking both of his wrists. Another hand comes up to grip his jaw… keeping it in place.

“Let me go, you _muggle fucker._ ”

Cool fingers keep their stubborn grip on his chin, one of them trailing over Regulus’s bottom lip.

“Such unbelievable _insolence,_ ” the voice hisses. “It seems even impeccable heritage cannot cure an impure mouth.”

Regulus freezes, a chill working down his spine at the cold anger weighing down his captor's voice.

Who is this man?

He gets his answer almost immediately.

The arm around his waist spins him with ease and slams him down onto the marble countertop of the kitchen island from waist-down, gripping Regulus’s wrists above his head. A porcelain bowl falls on its side, and grapes roll into Regulus’s hair, spilling onto the floor.

And the man holding him down…

Regulus thinks he might have been even _prettier_ than himself, had he been younger and not so… large. Both physically and presence-wise, because this man's swirling, dominant Dark magic radiates off of him in heady waves. It is the first thing Regulus noticed about him, precisely because of how suffocating it is.

The middle-aged man is all hollowed cheeks and aristocratic bone structure, arched, black eyebrows and black hair. Gray streaks do not give away his age—because he has _none_ —but rather, the wrinkles around the corner of his mouth do… a cruel, handsome mouth, nonetheless.

But most alarming of all are his eyes. Deep set, long-lashed, and _red,_ just like in the stories.

A chill licks down Regulus’s spine, shuddering in submission. A feeling of doom settles deep in his stomach, bubbling with panic and hopelessness. He knows instantly who this man is.

Regulus closes his eyes. God, the _one_ moment he decides to run his mouth…

He is an _idiot._ There is no way he escaping Malfoy Manor alive tonight.

“My Lord…” Regulus says, because it is all he can say. It is a plead and everyone in the room knows it, because by now, everyone is watching them.

Lord Voldemort has always enjoyed having an audience.

The older man smiles now, a cruel twist of his mouth. He is savoring Regulus’s fear, reminiscing the moment his anger turned into panic, feeding off of it like the predator he is.

“How nice of you to remember your manners,” the Dark Lord says, his hand releasing Regulus’s wrists. Regulus doesn’t dare move, even as he knows what is to come.

A wand points in his direction.

“But,” he continues, “I am afraid you must _earn_ your forgiveness.”

A terrible pain strikes Regulus with a suddenness that has his heart leaping from his chest. Sharp needles are poking every bit of his body, and this is a pain he should be _used_ to of all things, his own _mother_ used to put him through this for the purpose of “practice,” for the purpose of making “her darling heir _stronger_.”

But _his_ magic is nothing like anybody else’s. It is oppressive in a way even a stormy night’s darkest cloud could never be. It is brute force and mind-numbing pain and countless other sensations, all horrible.

And for some reason, Regulus is so _sensitive_ to it. The Dark Lord’s magic is so powerful that a mere _Wingardium Leviosa_ from that wand would have Regulus soaring through the clouds of the stratosphere.

But instead, right now, Regulus is being subjected to his _Cruciatus_ spell. And his world boils down to nothing but a sea of pain, the precise pricks of every merciless needle in and out of his body. He can feel every needle slowly, agonizingly sinking into his body, millimeter after millimeter stabbing him and reaching for his soul.

He is going  _insane._  

His mouth can’t stop screaming, tears can’t stop streaming down his face. Every second more of this torture brings him closer to irrevocable, incurable _madness_ —

“Enough?” The Dark Lord asks, almost lightheartedly. But how on earth he expects a coherent reply is beyond Regulus—

The Cruciatus spell ceases.

Regulus is left panting on the floor, his eyes fluttering in pain. It hasn’t stopped. He can still feel phantom needles poking at him, clawing at his skin and limbs.

“Yes, my Lord,” he grits out, despite the way it hurts as he moves his jaw.

Regulus feels rather than sees the Dark Lord’s focus shift away from him, dismissing him. He doesn’t need to open his eyes to know that the Dark Lord is no longer addressing him, but his audience.

“Let this be a lesson in _restraint_ for you all,” he breathes, his voice low and enthralling. “I do not need foul-mouthed, rebellious creatures ruled by emotions over logic.”

Regulus opens his eyes, watching the Dark Lord spread his arms wide as he speaks to his awed audience.

“I desire your minds, your intelligence. I want to channel your desires for purity into our joint ambition for a better world. And above all, I demand loyalty.”

He takes a step further into the circle that has unwittingly formed around him.

“In return, you will gain the power you have long-desired, in this new era of the Wizarding World. You will be freed of blood impurity, freed of magical restrictions—and in this freedom, you will prosper beyond your wildest imagination. ”

Silence, save for heavy breaths.

That low, enchanting voice speaks once more, curling around the syllables in hissing manner.

“Kneel, if you wish to pledge yourself to Lord Voldemort.”

 

There is not a single head in the air, because they are all touching the floor. The initiates are kneeling, foreheads pressed to the cold marble and their arms are outstretched before them, offering them up.

Regulus is barely lucid, too weak to do little more than curl himself into a ball on the floor, but the Dark Lord comes to him first anyways. Strange. He’d hoped the man had forgotten him.

There is a whisper into his ear as a cold, familiar hand lifts his arm.

“I _thank you_ for your honesty, and for speaking your mind.” A wand traces the inner skin of his arm, right above his wrist. “Despite the trouble it caused you, I hope you continue to do so.”

Regulus twitches once in surprise.

“You… still want me, my Lord?” Regulus says, though his voice shakes and blood trickles out of his mouth as he talks, distorting his words. When he regains his consciousness, he will remember this moment of weakness with disgust.

Cold fingers grip his jaw once more, turning him to directly face those haunting, burning red eyes.

“I will _have_ you,” Lord Voldemort says lowly, too quietly for anyone else in the room to hear, and the way he says it, dark and filled with promise and something entirely _else…_ possessiveness… makes Regulus freeze in fear.

But before he can do anything else, a wand is pressed into the skin of his arm, and different sort of pain fills his body —like wired ropes, wrapping around him, burning their mark on to his skin.

Regulus is receiving the Dark Mark, and his body is _accepting_ it. There is dark chuckle somewhere above him, a mutter of, “So sensitive to my magic…”

But when the pain finally subsides, so does his consciousness. And as blackness submerges his vision, Regulus barely catches the words coming out of his new master’s mouth.

His first order.

“ _Succumb_ , my rebellious Black heir.”


End file.
